


Candleburn

by R_Cookie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, anthea is surprisingly maternal, h/c, mystrade, woeful angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:24:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Cookie/pseuds/R_Cookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on K!Meme</p><p>It is like seeing that one final, crucial fragment of a puzzle lying right at your fingertips.<br/>Only to know it is not your place to touch it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candleburn

**Author's Note:**

> I am supposed to be focusing on another story after taking a break with The Right Question but here I am trolling the meme and coming up with THIS.
> 
> For the original prompt [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=78526597#t78526597).
> 
> Well, I am writing more Mystrade afterall. Cheers!

Their story begins just as any other story does – with a meeting. 

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is first introduced to the Head of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Member of Parliament Mycroft Holmes on a rainy Tuesday. They shake hands outside the room that houses his younger brother, incarcerated for drug overdose. 

 _Fact is, Lestrade is twenty-one when he encounters a young lad of eighteen, tall and poised and bearing traces of puppy fat, standing sopping wet in the rain at a crossing along Tothill Street. The thin material of the simple dress shirt clings to the boy’s skin and Lestrade shrugs off his old, dirty green denim coat for some impulsive reason. He shoves it at the boy and doesn’t wait for a response, trotting off with his brolly. Lestrade no longer remembers this at all – though on occasion he does wonder where his coat has gone._

_Mycroft never forgets._

 

**-1.0-**

Sherlock is perched on the edge of an ambulance, the ghastly orange blanket swamped around his shoulder and the good doctor’s. The dark smudges beneath his eyes stand out all too stark and both men are nursing bruises and light grazes. But they are otherwise unharmed and that is all that matters to Mycroft at this point. 

Watson lifts his head and his eyes meet Mycroft’s – the man’s certain Sherlock has merely chosen to ignore him. The doctor gives him a subtle nod which Mycroft feels no need to reciprocate. 

Mycroft turns on his heel and heads for the car where Anthea waits for him. 

“Not going to say hullo to Sherlock?” 

Lestrade, the long-suffering Detective Inspector of Sherlock’s, slips under the yellow tape barrier, bits of gravel crunching under his shoe. In the yellow glow of the street lights, the man is haloed and something odd flares in Mycroft’s chest. He has seen more than his share of beauty, men and women alike, and not once has Mycroft ever given pause. Gregory Lestrade is no Adonis, and yet… there he stands, rakish and haggard and worked to the bone and Mycroft feels _something_. 

Mycroft nudges his fedora with the handle of his brolly by way of greeting. 

“No, I doubt he would care for it. And he looks… well. That will suffice,” he says. 

Lestrade huffs in that way Mycroft understands to mean a chuckle. 

“Right. Take care of yourself, Holmes. You look right worn out.” 

Mycroft pulls open the door, and looks at Lestrade unabashedly from beneath the cover of his hat. 

“Indeed. As the saying goes, I believe, ‘Right back at you’, Detective.” 

It is to the echo of the man’s laughter that Mycroft finally pulls away from the site.

 

**-2.0-**

Perhaps fate has a twisted sense of humor, or just a penchant for melodrama – Gregory might have subscribed to both theories if he actually believed in fate. As far as it goes, he harbors a bit of trust in Luck though more so in instincts. Whatever it is, he cannot help but lament over the realization that the only instances he should ever chance upon Mycroft Holmes seem to be at the scene of the more grisly cases where his younger brother bears the higher likelihood of running headlong into danger. 

It used to bother him, that sneaky fluttering of nerves that sprang up whenever Sherlock’s older brother was present; he wasn’t used to it, wasn’t all too pleased with feeling like a goddamn teenager again. He was past that awkward phase, thanks very much, had already suffered through it. Just the once was more than enough. But even as out of practice as he was, it didn’t stop him from acknowledging on that one horrible Monday morning that he was infatuated. The rest of that week had gone straight to hell. 

“Good evening, Detective.” Gregory wishes he hadn’t felt a pleased shiver streak down his spine at the soft, cultured baritone. 

“Holmes,” he says, staring resolutely at his men puttering about the evidence. “Long week at the office?” Gregory has no idea what the hell is wrong with the connection between his brain and mouth. Small talk? Really, Lestrade, get a hold of yourself. 

“Quite. Sherlock’s been attempting to hack into my server of late. It’s safe to presume there’s been no _interesting_ cases, then?” Mycroft sniffs. 

“ _Jesus_. Well, no. There’ve been nothing but cases. Just not interesting enough for your brother,” Lestrade’s fingers pause where they have been attempting to staunch off a migraine. “Wait, _Sherlock’s_ not here to be checked up on. Why are you here, then?” 

Mycroft tips his blasted fedora and Gregory sees only that enigmatic smile. He watches, transfixed, as Mycroft takes a sip from the coffee cup he’s held in his hands, as the pink of the man’s tongue darts to lick his lips absently. 

“Have a good weekend, Detective.” The paper cup is pressed into Gregory’s hands, his fingers wrapped around it by Mycroft’s surprisingly calloused ones. 

Gregory blinks numbly down at the warm coffee, and then at the retreating back of Sherlock’s older brother. 

“Call me Gregory,” he manages to choke out in parting. 

In the distance, Gregory swears he sees a grin.

 

**-3.0-**

 

“What are you doing?” 

Lestrade doesn’t look up from the stack of papers being reviewed. 

“Explain yourself, Detective,” the voice demands imperiously. 

Lestrade sighs. 

“Explain, _what_ , Sherlock.” 

“For god’s sake… Sherlock, stop being such a  - Sorry about this, Greg,” John gushes, irritation all too evident on his face as he rushes in after Sherlock. 

“Don’t, John.” The doctor rolls his eyes. “You and Mycroft,” Sherlock glares pointedly. “What are you _playing_ at? You act like a schoolgirl around him, so it’s clear you’re ‘interested’ in him. And with the way _he_ behaves – ” 

Lestrade freezes around the words. How _does_ Mycroft behave around him? 

“What do you mean – ” 

Sherlock scowls down at him, disdain written across his face. “You don’t even know and yet you would – ” 

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John hisses. 

Lestrade takes a moment to just stare at nothing, pieces and fragments of everything slowly coming together. 

“Do you really think so?” He can’t help the silly grin warping his lips. 

Sherlock flinches, startling, confused at the question. Behind him, John gives a wry smirk and two thumbs up.

 

**-4.0-**

 

Mycroft sees Lestra- Gregory sometime after Christmas week and nothing seems to have changed. When he walks over from the car, blithely ignorant of the _look_ Anthea shoots him from behind her Blackberry, he observes with the fierce intensity he usually reserves for when Sherlock is being an incredible thorn in his side. 

Gregory suppresses a twitch when he hears Mycroft’s approach, is attuned to his presence enough to be able to identify him by the weight he places with each step. He cannot help but be impressed. His cheeks have a faint spray of color when he greets Mycroft though it could easily be owed to the biting wind. There is no difference in the inflection of his voice, no difference in the way he carries himself. 

Data: Inconclusive. 

Mycroft refrains from worrying his lip, steeling himself instead like a true politician. He engages Gregory in their typical banter, striving valiantly to ignore the curve of those lips, the faint five o’clock shadow. 

His mind plays the memory like a broken record, over and over, no matter what Mycroft does to stop it. Every turn of the scene shreds that _something_ he’s felt inside from that first night. The thrumming of music in the background, muffled in that instant, the warm press of his arms against his back, the steady hand tugging at the short curls of his nape, the firm caress of those chapped lips against his own. 

But Gregory seems not to remember, or perhaps chooses to forget. And if the chances of jeopardizing whatever it is that they have is unfairly high should the subject be raised, then Mycroft will fold. 

He will get by, he tells himself. 

(He can’t.)

 

**-5.0-**

Gregory hadn’t expected Mycroft to agree, not when it meant mingling with _others_. The invitation had been made more in jest than anything. But the man had shown up, impeccable as ever even without his usual overcoat, and Gregory had gone within an inch of succumbing to his urges. 

As it turned out, he did eventually. So it was a moot point, in any case. 

Gregory might or might not (he did) have gotten a little tipsy (very) but if it’d meant that he managed to say ‘fuck off’ to his inhibitions, then hurrah. He remembers every second of it, the way Mycroft’s eyes had dilated, the way his breathing had stuttered warm against his cheek. He remembers the kisses and nips he’d given that damn suprasternal notch and it drives him crazy. 

The week he next sees Mycroft however, throws a wet blanket over everything. The man is quiet, even more so than normal, a tiny frown marring his brows. There is no mention of their little moment, no indication that the pursuit of it might lead to anything favorable, and the feeling is somewhat akin to getting stabbed. 

Gregory has caved to the understanding that infatuation has morphed into something bordering on obsession, and he will do nothing to threaten the peculiar brand of friendship or whatever it is that they share. 

If Mycroft wishes to pretend it never happened, then Gregory supposes he can too.

(He can’t.)

 

**-6.0-**

Mycroft Holmes doesn’t lose his composure. It simply does not happen. When his car pulls up just as the ambulance doors close on the bloodstained bodies of his younger brother, the doctor _and_ Gregory, Mycroft does not give in to the insane urge to crush something. No, he calmly looks out the window and lets Anthea, god bless her, bark at the driver to tail the vehicle. Regardless of traffic. 

He walks with haste (he does not run in the hallway, let alone of a hospital) towards his brother’s ward and finds both Sherlock and Doctor Watson ensconced in hospital garb and pristine white sheets. Watson is out cold, his chest rising and falling steadily; he spots the bandages peeking from his shoulder. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, is wide awake and matching Mycroft’s stare, for once passing on giving a snide remark at his frazzled state (his hair was tousled, his shirt rumpled). 

“I forgot about the bomb,” his little brother says. 

“You forgot,” Mycroft parrots, deadpan. 

“Yes.” 

“I see.” 

“Get out, brother,” Sherlock commands without that biting edge. Mycroft sees the unusual, softened expression to cold, impersonal grey eyes. “He’s in the waiting area, no doubt.” 

Mycroft fists his hand and welcomes the blunt nails that press into his palm. 

“I’m glad you’re alright.” 

Mycroft is out of the room right after.

 

**-7.0-**

The explosion had blasted the wall to pieces, and a stray chunk had smashed itself against Gregory’s head. It was bleeding sluggishly in the ambulance, and staunched by the time Sherlock and John are wheeled into their ward. He waits in the sitting area with the other few people still present at such an ungodly hour. Gregory doesn’t quite recall what he’s waiting for aside from knowing not to fall asleep (head wound. Concussion. No sleeping.), until he hears his name breathed like a benediction. 

Gregory wakes the next morning to a splitting headache. He has little recollection of precisely how he ends up back home, tucked perfectly into his own bed. 

There are, thankfully, vague impressions that linger in his mind – Mycroft’s harried face in the bright white light, the murmurs they exchange as the debilitating need to sleep gnaws at him, the lulling thrum of the car he is guided into. But above all, he clings onto what his body recalls of warm fingers that card through his hair, and the soft press of lips to his temple, his cheek. 

Gregory squeezes his eyes close and presses his face into the pillow, curling up tight. If he breathes deeply enough, there is the faintest trace of leather and _Mycroft_.

 

**-8.0-**

 

“Sir…” 

Anthea walks with measured steps towards her boss, each step sounded by the precise hit of her stiletto heel against the marbled floor. The man, whom to the world stands infallible, has his arms folded on the desk, head buried against them. By his side is an open bottle of Whiskey, an empty glass beside it. 

She clicks her tongue. 

“Don’t,” is the muffled command. 

Anthea ignores him for once, grabbing the bottle to stopper it. It is perhaps three-fifth full and this reassures her somewhat. 

“Sir,” she says sharply. 

Mycroft exhales heavily, straightening up to press the heel of his palms to his eyes. When they fall to his lap, Anthea winces inwardly at how red and bloodshot his eyes are. 

“I’ve found him,” he says, voice like a whisper. 

Anthea says nothing. 

“I _love_ him,” he admits, hoarse from disuse (or perhaps crying? She doesn’t wish to ponder the latter). 

“I know, Sir,” she says quietly. 

“But I know, I know there is nothing I can _do_.” Anthea hates the helplessness screaming in his posture, his words. This is not the man she knows… and yet, it undeniably is. 

“I can do nothing, not with this job, this position. Any connections, anything of any importance is _leverage_. It leaves me vulnerable, it leaves _Britain_ vulnerable. And I cannot have him in danger – ” She says nothing, waits for him to ramble himself drained because despite what they both already know, it is perhaps necessary for him to hear it aloud. Because lord knows how much more he can bottle up. 

Mycroft Holmes isn’t a machine, isn’t heartless regardless of what people may say. Mycroft Holmes can be and is just as human as any other. 

Anthea looks at him, broken and torn and _fuck_ – those are _tears_. 

She strides around the table, and willfully abandons any semblance of decorum or propriety. They have no place in this. Anthea doesn’t wait for permission or notice, doesn’t wait for him to protest; she slides a little onto the desk and crushes Mycroft against her. Those thin arms that belie incredulous amounts of strength wrap tightly around a shoulder, the other cradling his head. 

Mycroft tenses for a bare moment before he surrenders to her embrace, fingers clutching desperately at the hem of her blazer. 

Anthea closes her eyes and says nothing, listening intently to each painful repetition muffled into her blouse. 

“I love him. I love him. I love him…”

 

  


 

**-0.9-**

 

On the first of December, Gregory Lestrade is startled out of bed by the loud pounding of his door. Pissed off and groggy, he grabs his revolver from under his pillow and treads carefully across his apartment. Through the peephole, he sees nobody. It is as he turns the handle that he notices an envelope at his feet, slipped through the crack between door and floor. 

The cream envelope is watermarked to Smythson of Bond Street, thick and smooth to the touch. There is no addressee on the front. With the letter, he heads for his desk, searching blindly for the letter opener he knows to be somewhere. Once gripped firmly in his hand, he carefully pries the envelope open and removes the Nile blue writing paper. 

His eyes scan the elegantly worded paragraphs.

 

\---

 

On the first of December, Mycroft Holmes drops off the grid without a word to anyone. His home shows no traces of being touched, his possessions still arranged as they’ve always been. His office is likewise undisturbed. His brother was given a terse message by way of a text several hours prior, that says nothing more than: _Hunting. Be careful._ _MH_.

 

\---

 

Gregory buries the letter somewhere whilst horribly drunk, in the hopes that he will forget where it lies. Every word carefully etched onto the paper had eaten away at Gregory’s soul and getting stupendously smashed had seemed the only logical solution. He mentions the letter to nobody and after a whole year, the pain finally fades to a dull throb. 

He lives and works and sees no-one.

 

\---

 

Four years pass before Sherlock stumbles across the letter thrown haphazardly in a box that he so happens to be managing, having been dragged into helping Gregory move out of his apartment. He pries it open, recognizing the card stock and weight immediately for what it is. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t say a word to anyone as he frantically devours every word. 

It isn’t until the letter is snatched out of his hands by an outraged detective that piercing grey eyes widen almost comically. 

“Have I misunderstood your affections for him?” Nobody, not John or Gregory anticipates the question. 

“What?” 

“Why do you spend your days in depression and anger? Why, when a person would normally hold onto that hope? Or have I yet again failed to understand social protocols? John?” Gregory cannot comprehend the sincere look of confusion on the man’s face. 

“Sherlock…” 

“What ‘hope’ are you talking about?” 

Sherlock immediately assumes his patented look that shouts ‘Are-You-An-Idiot-It’s-In-Your-Face’. 

“The letter is double encrypted – ” 

Gregory catches the phrase ‘the mirrored truth’ and flips the letter open for the umpteenth time. As he reads it, just as he has years ago, his eyes prickle. 

…I shall never see you again-

_I shall see you again._

…Do not trouble yourself waiting for the impossible-

_Wait for me._

…You’ve long mistaken all that has passed between us

for all  the distraction you have been

I have loathed no one stronger.

_I love you._

**-10.0 (Epilogue)-**

Several years hence, in the English countryside, stands a pretty little cottage with burgundy tiles and cream colored walls. It is peaceful and beautiful and a complete opposite of the hectic life the owner has led till then. The nearest town is about a mile’s walk north and the next cottage another mile southeast. 

Gregory Lestrade is in his yard, sprawled peacefully along the length of a wooden bench, book resting comfortably in one hand. 

It is a glorious afternoon and Gregory basks in the warmth of the Sun. 

At a quarter to five, there is the usual crunch of gravel and the cheerful greeting by the mailman. He ambles over to receive the post with a polite smile of his own, and waves young Freddy off as the bicycle continues on. 

As the sun begins to set, Gregory marks his page, closes the book and makes for the door when there is an atypical set of footsteps coming down the road. He pushes his spectacles up along his nose bridge and squints against the setting sun. 

There is a man, a man he knows only too well, has dreamed of too often, making his way towards his little cottage. There is a neat, black umbrella in one hand, used appropriately as a walking aid now than it had in the past, and a smart ensemble of khaki waistcoat and trousers, crisp white shirt tucked in proper. The overcoat is draped across an arm. 

Gregory doesn’t realize he’s already at the fence until his fingers fumble with the lock on their own accord and he’s meeting the other man half-way. 

They embrace and it feels as cataclysmic as the collision of two novas. Gregory remembers, remembers so much – the hint of cologne, the mild soap that was always used, the traces of leather that clung onto the man from time spent in luxury, the unmistakable amalgamation of _Mycroft_. 

“You sure took your time,” Gregory chokes out. 

And the laugh that rings in the stillness of twilight is like a song he has never forgotten.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Picca edited from screenshots.


End file.
